


If The Shoe Fits

by Scribblesinink (Scribbler)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-09
Updated: 2008-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribbler/pseuds/Scribblesinink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One thing Sam learns from the near-disaster with the witch coven is that trying to mold himself in Dean's image is not as easy as he first imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If The Shoe Fits

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really do meta. But I do fic. Which means that sometimes thinky thoughts disguise themselves as stories. Set in the same post-3.09 verse as my ficlet [Hard Bargain](http://supernatural.scribblesinink.com/2008/02/03/hard-bargain/), but that's more for staging purposes than that it has anything to do with this little tale. And I have to thank [tanaquisga](http://tanaquisga.livejournal.com/) once again for her nitpicking work.

The sound of a key being inserted into the lock made Sam raise his head. He tensed for a moment until instinct, honed over a lifetime of hunting together, told him it was Dean returning. Setting the miniature of whiskey he held down on the floor, he slumped back into the easy chair and watched as the door swung inward.

Dean carried the scent of cigarette smoke and booze with him, which told Sam where he'd been before Dean even said, "Went out for a drink. Needed to think."

Hearing the unintended rhyme, Dean flinched visibly: it was an open invitation to lob a clichéd wisecrack. But Sam had other things on his mind than making fun of his brother.

"What about?"

Dean shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the nearest bed. "Stuff." Which translated to _I don't want to talk about it_. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Like…?"

Dean rolled a shoulder. "Dunno. Whatever." He plonked down on the bed next to his jacket, hands resting lightly on his knees.

"In that case, no."

The room was quiet for a long minute. A car's headlights briefly pierced the faded curtains as a late arrival turned into the motel parking lot, the beam of bright light raking across the ceiling.

"I've been thinking too," Sam confessed at last.

Dean glanced up from contemplating the grimy carpet. "Oh?"

Sam offered him a faint smile. "Yeah. You know, what we talked about earlier. About…"

"…you wanting to become me?" Dean finished.

Sam nodded. "I don't think I can do it, Dean." Inwardly, he cringed at the plaintive note that had crept into his voice. But Dean didn't seem to notice.

"Good." Dean got up, walked over to the sink and reached for the tap. He hesitated a moment before turning it on and splashing water onto his face. "Because I don't want you to."

"I thought if I tried hard enough, I could." Sam chuckled wryly. "See the world in black and white, good or evil. Be ruthless." He spoke more to himself than to Dean. "But I can't." He snatched up the bottle at his feet and finished it off. His eyes were tearing up—from the burn of the liquor down his throat, no doubt.

Dean turned away from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He stared at Sam, eyes narrowing a little when he caught sight of the bottle. "You been drinking?"

Sam smirked. "Yeah."

Dean heaved a sigh. "Good job, Sam. Because you and drinking and thinking always get along so well."

"I'm not drunk," Sam protested. And he wasn't. He'd raided the mini bar only until his brain hummed with a pleasant buzz. Enough to take the edge off of his memories of the night and his conscience. "Just… tipsy."

"Dude, nobody says 'tipsy' anymore these days."

"I do." Sam gave his brother a lopsided grin. "But that's not the point, Dean."

Dean sat down on the bed again and slid up until he reached the headboard. He plumped up a pillow and stuffed it behind his back. "So, what _is_ the point, Sam?"

"The point is… is… I don't know what the point is," Sam murmured, losing his train of thought. He was quiet for a minute, racking his brains. Perhaps Dean was right, and he'd drunk more than he should've…. Seemed those itty bitty bottles packed quite a punch, after you'd had a few..

Eventually, it came to him. "The witches," he said.

"What about them?" Dean shrugged. "They're dead. They got what was coming for them."

"See," Sam said, brightening. "_That's_ the point. They didn't. They didn't know what they were dealing with."

"Mucking around with black arts?" Dean reminded Sam. "Witchcraft? Selling their damned souls to a demon? For _money_? At least I—" He stopped and looked away. After a second or two had passed, he crossed one ankle over the other and planted an arm behind his head. "I say they got what they deserved."

Sam grinned, feeling vindicated. He straightened up. "See? That right there, that's black-and-white thinking, Dean. And about Amanda, yeah, I agree. She was a murderer; she had to be stopped. But those others?" He paused, collecting thoughts that threatened to scatter again. Apparently exhaustion and hard liquor didn't mix well. "They were just selfish women caught up in something they didn't understand. And Tammi was possessed. By a demon _we_ let out of hell. We're responsible for that."

Dean took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Sam overrode him before he could speak. "Yeah, I know. Not our fault, blah blah. I say we're still responsible. That demon turned those women to witchcraft. For all we know, Mrs. Renee van Allen—" He felt a slight pang of guilt at mimicking the way she'd enunciated the name herself—she was dead, after all, "…would've still been holding her weekly book club meetings, discussing the latest trashy romance novel or whatever, if it hadn't been for that damned demon."

Dean shifted on the bed, and Sam knew he was starting to come around to Sam's point of view, even if Dean wasn't about to admit it.

"And Elizabeth," Sam continued. "You can't really believe she deserved to die. She had guts. If she hadn't distracted the demon, we would've all died tonight. That demon would've send Ruby back to hell, then killed us both."

Dean was quiet, silently looking over at Sam. At last, he growled, "Sammy, you think too much. What's done is done. No use crying over it now."

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and began to unlace his boots. "I say we get some sleep. Got a long drive tomorrow. I hear there's a haunted cattle farm down in Texas."

Sam nodded. He knew that this was the last they'd ever talk about the witch coven in Massachusetts. But he also knew that, deep down, Dean agreed with him.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps, they were already more alike than they'd realized.

***


End file.
